


Tumblr shorties

by FeelingsDusk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mentions of abuse (never graphic), Pet names used as weapons of mass destruction, Police AU, Protector!Stiles, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelingsDusk/pseuds/FeelingsDusk
Summary: Up to 2k word or so works from Tumblr.(Chapter 1 is the list.)Last instalment:Moon Tiara, action!Prompt:"Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy.”





	1. List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are piling up, so I thought it was time to post them here. 
> 
> Thanks to the usual suspects ;) for proofing them.

**1.[Just a name.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28714900)**

**Prompt:** You walk in a room to find that the only way to escape is by writing a name of a real person on a piece of paper. This will kill a person.

**2.[ It's a small world.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28715720)**

**Prompt:** You’re a killer dumping your latest victim into the river. Just as you’re about to be done, you spot another person. Doing exactly the same thing. And they’ve just spotted you, too.

**3.[Power of words.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28715732)**

**Prompt:** A good book makes you want to live in the story. A great book gives you no choice.

**4.[I loveeee youuuu.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28715812)**

**Prompt:** "If I tell you I love you will you make me pancakes?"

**5.[About honesty.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28715912)**

**Prompt:** "Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them."

**6.[About trust.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28715956)**

**Prompt:** "When did you become my mother?" and "I trusted you."

**7.[Pause for effect.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28715996)**

**Prompt:** “I miss you, but then I remember what an asshole you are and the feeling fades.”

**8.[The weight of duty.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28716072)**

**Prompt:** "You make me want things I can't have."

**9.[Epic levels of stupid.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28716096)**

**Prompt:** "How much of that did you hear?"

**10.[The consequences of following tradition.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/28716128)**

**Prompt:** "This is why we can't have nice things."

**11.[Make me.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/31856637)**

**Prompt:** Soulmate AU + "Make me".

**12.[Sweet, sweet Karma.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/32189745)**

**Prompt:** "I shouldn't be in love with you".

**13.[Returning the favor.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/32217576)**

**Prompt:** Police AU + "I swear it won't happen again.".

**14.[So done it's charred.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/32235846)**

**Prompt:** “Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

**15.[In the early hours.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/33100155)**

**Prompt:** “It's three in the morning.”

**16.[Moon Tiara, action!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605864/chapters/35206310)**

**Prompt:** "Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy.”


	2. Just a name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You walk in a room to find that the only way to escape is by writing a name of a real person on a piece of paper. This will kill a person.

The being's mocking eyes haven't left Stiles ever since he made its announcement, voice full of glee and anticipation. The pack is growling outside, trying to bring the door down but he pays them no mind.

"So I just have to write down one name and then I'm free?" he verifies because these things aren't normally this straightforward.

"Just one name," the creature nods, mouth curling into a smirk that shows way too many teeth.

Stiles hums thoughtfully, biting his lower lip. It's obvious that attacking it isn't a viable option. Theatrics apart -Stiles doesn't need it to flash its fangs at him this many times, thank you very much, he got the message with the first one-, the thing is exuding so much power that the air feels heavy and it's difficult to breathe. Which makes it all fine and dandy since Stiles doesn't have any plans whatsoever of doing something so stupid.

"So they obviously have to be alive to begin with," he simply adds.

"That would be a requisite, yes," it snorts in answer.

"What do I write with?" The creature reaches into its own head to pluck a quill that's so deep a blue that nearly looks black and hands it to Stiles. The teen looks at it doubtfully. "Touching it won't burn me or curse me or something like that, right?"

"Well, aren't you a suspicious little thing," it mocks and Stiles crosses his arms, refusing to take it until he gets a straight answer. It cackles delighted. "Not if you cover your hands."

Stiles scowls, pulling his sleeves to cover his hands briskly before taking it. Then he approaches the walls and shudders when he sees all those names written on it in so many different handwritings. He wonders how many of those people took the quill with their bare hands and, spotting stains in various degrees of oxidization all around the room, he guesses that too many.

"Can I write more than one name? I mean, what if the name I'm writing belongs to a person that has died and I don't know it?"

"You can write as many as you want so long they are from people you actually _know_ , not know of." It doesn't take a very observant person to get that the perspective delights the creature almost as much as seeing a person struggle with choosing just the one name. "The quill won't work if they're already dead."

Stiles takes a deep breath and then starts writing the name of every single enemy they've had (bar current allies, of course) since all the supernatural bullshit started in Beacon Hills. He may as well make sure that the Kate 2.0 fiasco doesn't repeat itself, right? Then, when none of those names work, he writes the name of the asshole that has been giving them grief this time and watches satisfied as it appears on the wall.

Then he writes the name the being gave him after trapping him inside, just before explaining the rules, because why the hell not?

Stiles lunges backwards just before a monstrous claw embeds itself in the wall and then scrambles as far as he can from it. He needn't have worried, though, because after that last attempt, the thing remains motionless. The pack erupts inside from the resulting hole in the wall and then just gapes. Peter pokes at the thing carefully and snorts, coming near to help Stiles up.

"I'm hungry, I want curly fries," the teen whines.

"You're always hungry, sweetheart," Peter drawls.

"Wait, what the hell-?" Scott splutters confused.

"Don't worry, Scotty!" Stiles exclaims happily, patting his head. "Everything turned out fine! Or it will when I get my curly fries, anyway."

"But the-"

"Also dead. I wrote his name on the wall too. Curly fries, now! I'm starving!"

Before leaving unceremoniously (he cooked, so to speak, the rest can take care of the cleaning), Stiles wraps the quill in the handkerchief he steals from Peter's pocket. It might come handy at a later date after all. Peter positively beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	3. It's a small world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You’re a killer dumping your latest victim into the river. Just as you’re about to be done, you spot another person. Doing exactly the same thing. And they’ve just spotted you, too.

Stiles grunts harshly as he tries to haul the body from the back of the jeep. He loses his balance at the deadweight (ha, look at that pun Scotty, see how he can still make them in dire situations?) and his foot slips. As he's falling, he reflexively tightens his grip and ends up pulling the body with him. He groans long-sufferingly from the ground. Even if it's not raining at the moment, it has been all day, so the ground is wet and muddy. Which means that Stiles is now also very wet and muddy where he's sprawled on the ground with a dead person over him.

The day keeps getting better and better.

He sighs and pushes him to the side with a grunt. When he's finally up, he kicks him absent-mindedly. The bastard, thinking that he can hurt his dad and get away scot-free. He's lucky that his dad's prognosis is good, or Stiles would have drawn it out longer than poison and a bat to the head. Of course, he could have skipped the bat part and avoided the mess, but that way it was much more therapeutic. His therapist is always going on and on about not bottling feelings up and finding ways to let anger go. Who knew that it wasn't just a load of bullshit? Stiles _does_ feel better now.

He grabs the body again and drags it towards the river. He really needs to go to the gym more if he's this winded after so little exercise, he thinks chagrined. He huffs and puffs all the way there and finally lets loose a triumphant sound as he throws one Gerard Argent to the river, meters below.

As he looks up, he makes eye contact with a man on the other side of the river... who seems to be also disposing of a body. Coincidentaly, that body is (was?) Kate Argent. Well, look at that, the world is so small.

The double splash after they impact on the water one after the other is really beautiful, Stiles thinks as he waves slowly to the man.

After a second, the man waves back.

"Coffee?" he pipes.

"That sounds heavenly," the man answers after some consideration.

"Right??? I'm Stiles, by the way."

"Peter."

"Nice to meet you, Peter."

"Nice to meet you too." He pauses. "Was his head...?"

"Yep. Messy but therapeutic. And her? Was her throat...?"

"Definitely. Very therapeutic too."

"Nice!"

"Very."

It's the start of a very beautiful friendship... and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	4. Power of words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A good book makes you want to live in the story. A great book gives you no choice.

"Don't," Stiles snaps, looking around dismayed.

"You know it needs to be said," Peter points out, the wickedly amused glint in his eyes giving his mirth away even if he's trying to look nonchalant.

"I swear I'll set you on fire, Peter. _Again._ "

"Some things just need to be said, no matter the consequences," Peter replies, obnoxiously rational. "Moreover, you know you would say it, sweetheart."

"Yeah, and look where that got us!" Stiles growls and then startles at his own words. He looks at Peter, who looks like the cat that got the canary. All the canaries. Canaries just went extinct, mourn the poor things. Oh, dammit. " _Don't you dare._ "

"You," he starts enunciating slowly. Stiles purses his lips and facepalms, in pain deep, deep inside. "Offended a book."

"I didn't mean to!"

"And that's why that mighty power you have to irritate anything and everything under the sun with just a few words is so... awe-inspiring."

"I swear to- How could I know?!" Stiles flails. "I wasn't even talking about- For fucks sake!" Stiles growls frustrated. "It's a book!"

Thunder explodes suddenly. The sky just above them fills will black clouds in less than half a minute and then rain starts pouring heavily on them.

The rest of the sky remains clear.

"Don't," Stiles grounds out shortly before having to spit the rainwater out of his mouth.

Peter raises his hands placatingly. "I was just going to ask which book were you reading, sweetheart. No need to be so susceptible."

"Tolkien," Stiles answers with a glare that portrays how much he believes the man's bullshit. "I was starting The Lord of the Rings."

"I love that book!"

"I do too, dammit!"

More deafening thunder explodes and the rain pours even more heavily.

"I don't think the book believes you," Peter deadpans, seemingly unfazed about the fact that at this rate they may drown on the spot.

"But I do! It's a _great_ book!"

"Again, too little too late, I think."

"I was talking generally!" Stiles shouts to the skies. "GENERALLY!"

More rain.

"I'd stop talking, sweetheart."

"For fuck's sake!" Stiles flails.

"Look, it could be worse. All things considered, the first book is not the most dangerous? Even The Hobbit would have been worse. Dragon and all that."

Stiles stops glaring angrily at the sky for a second to growl. "It was a compilation. As in, The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy in one book. That's why it was so big."

"Oh, fuck."

"Yes. Oh fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	5. I loveeee youuuu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "If I tell you I love you will you make me pancakes?"

It's been a very long night.

It's been a very, very long night.

It's been a very, very, _very_ long night.

Stiles moans piteously, smothering his face against the covers in an attempt to end his own misery. He fails, but that's no surprise. He moans again, cursing his luck and the Scooby Doo gang. Pack. Whatever.

Just.

_Why???_

Who in his right mind tries to talk to a manananggal? Who???

He turns his face to the side and breathes deeply. He squints and his vision focuses a bit. He needs food. He needs it right now. He spent way too much magic to kill the thing and then he had to drive back alone because Scott pitched a fit about Stiles killing said thing.

A thing that ate human beings. As in, its prey were human beings _exclusively_. It had already killed an entire family up north that they know of. _Children included_. Because just like lions eat other animals, manananggal eat humans. It's their nature.

_That can't be changed._

_Because they'd starve to death._

_BECAUSE THERE'S NO SUBSTITUTE OF HUMAN MEAT FOR THEM._

_BECAUSE HAS HE ALREADY MENTIONED THAT THEY'D STARVE TO DEATH WITHOUT IT???_

Stiles breathes deeply again. In through the nose, count to five, out through the mouth, count to five. Rinse and repeat. Getting angry won't solve anything. It won't stave his hunger or clean the now bloody and most likely ruined covers or wrap his wounds.

But he's so damn tired... Maybe if he sleeps a bit first...? Just five minutes to regain some energy should be fine...

He wakes up way more comfortable than he should be. He takes a deep breath and forces his eyes to open. He's wearing soft cotton pajamas that he doesn't remember putting on and he's inside the covers. They're a deep blue instead of beige. He frowns and tries to will his brain into starting more quickly. He's not successful.

"Those were Egyptian cotton covers, sweetheart," Peter tuts as he enters the room. "They cost more than your jeep, you know."

"Lies," Stiles manages to get out. His tongue is so dry that it feels stuck to the roof of his mouth, so that's a feat.

"They do. But to be fair, you wouldn't get more than five dollars for it, so that's not much of a stretch now that I think of it."

"Don' dish m'Roscoe, asshole."

"Note that I said five dollars when I meant one." Peter sighs dramatically. "That's what I get for being nice?" Stiles grumbles long-sufferingly but accepts the glass of water the man's handing to him. "What happened to the windshield?"

"Scott tried to talk to a manananggal."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

"I take it that it didn't go well."

"No shit, Sherlock," Stiles grumbles.

"Where is it?"

"Scattered around the preserve... and on your covers." He grimaces. "I... need to refine that new array a bit."

"A bit."

"Okay, a lot. That thing blew on my face. Ew."

"It can't have been that bad. There wasn't that much blood on your-"

"I ducked behind Scott the moment I noticed what was going to happen," Stiles shrugs. "Serves him right for fucking up the element of surprise."

Peter snorts in answer. Stiles sulks in silence for a moment before looking mournfully towards the bathroom. Peter sighs dramatically and hauls him up.

"The things you make me do," he complains and Stiles grins.

Stiles' grin widens even more when he notices that the bathtub is already full and that Peter has dropped a bathbomb inside. He breathes the citrusy smell in and subconsciously relaxes. When he sinks in, he can't help the delighted moan that escapes him. After a second, he turns soulful eyes towards Peter.

"If I tell you I love you, will you make me pancakes?"

Peter snorts once more, takes the first aid kit out of the cabinet to rewrap his wounds when he gets out of the bath, and then leaves.

"I loveeee youuuu," Stiles sing-songs happily at his retreating back.

Peter sticks his head back in, rolls his eyes dramatically and then leaves. Stiles laughs.

(He gets the pancakes, of course.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	6. About honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them."

Stiles is torn. On the one hand, he wants to make a good impression, because this is Peter's family and, make no mistake, Stiles is here for the long haul. On the other... These people are assholes, plain and simple. And ok, coming from him this is rich, because he's an asshole and he knows it. (So is Peter, for that matter, but that's why they get along so well.) But this is a different kind of breed?

He doesn't know how to explain it, but it is. There are assholes and _assholes_ , and this family fits the second category well. Too well. The kind of well that makes him...

But, again, this is Peter's family, and if he's trying to play nice (for Peter, that is), Stiles has to bite his tongue and follow his lead. But God, if he told anyone what he wants to do with Grandma Hale's knitting needles, he'd be committed for sure.

That hasn't stopped him from exacting petty revenge, though. The kind that is so grating but innocent looking that no one can say a thing because he's a guest. And Stiles can play the clumsy spaz really well.

(Because he's really a clumsy spaz, that is.)

(But not this much.)

(Oops, his bad. So sorry for breaking that ugly ass family relic that he knows for sure Peter abohrs.)

But really, if they make a quip about Peter's chosen career one more time... Stiles will... Stiles will... Stiles will have to bite his tongue once again and find a way to sneakily turn their prize-winning roses into not so winning ones. He groans. Two more hours to go.

Yay.

Stiles reminds himself that he can't kill these people, no matter how able he is to get away with it. He also reminds himself how Peter met his dad for the first time at the department's yearly barbecue, purely by chance, and that he performed admirably. And not only was his dad there, but the whole department that had seen Stiles grow up almost since he came out his mom's belly. If Peter managed, so can Stiles.

He groans again and washes his hands, making a long-suffering face at his own reflection before leaving the toilet.

"Oh my," Peter is saying loftily when Stiles comes back to the living room, “surprise! I have feelings and you just hurt them."

The tone is as sassy and sarcastic as it has been all day, but something doesn't seem right. Stiles aims a smile that's probably more teeth than anything else at Momma Hale and Sister Hale. He doesn't like how satisfied they look at all.

"Blue eyes?" Stiles says inquiringly as he squeezes his shoulder and those very same gorgeous blue eyes turn to look at him.

Instead of the look that says that Peter is rolling his eyes internally because he can't outwardly, he gets a blank look. Stiles blinks, thrown off.

"Dear," Momma Hale starts, sickeningly sweet. Stiles resists the temptation of schooling her on how much he doesn't care about terms of endearment. "I was telling Peter that, since this _thing_ of yours is... serious, he needs to be completely honest about his past with you."

"Oh?" Stiles says, thrown. "His past."

"Yes, dear."

"Because honesty is so important in a relationship, right?"

"Exactly!"

Stiles raises his eyebrows. His hand clenches reflexively on Peter's shoulder and Sister Hale smirks discretely. Oh no, she didn't.

"Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Remember what my dad asked you that time? At the barbecue?"

"I- Yes?"

"Have the answers changed?"

"No, of course not."

"Good," Stiles says before crouching to steal a kiss. "Now, since we're being... honest. Where should I start? I'm sorry I lied, but I was trying to be polite. That chicken parmesan sucked so bad. Prize-winning recipe my ass. It was dry as the Sahara and way too spicy... And I like spicy food, but the spiciness of your dry ass chicken was not a good spicy, if you know what I mean. You should work on that. Why does the toilet smell of lemon yogurt? Whoever chose that air freshener was an idiot. The house's layout is absurd and the decor is eye-searing. If you paid for that, you're idiotic assholes instead of just plain assholes. Also, do you even clean? I mean, I'm not the most tidy person in the world, but at least I make an effort to be extra clean when I have guests? There's dust everywhere and..."

Peter starts laughing.

(He won't stop during the whole ride home and most of their dinner. After that, during the next couple of days, he'll snort and start snickering whenever he lays his eyes on Stiles.)

(A week later, he'll tell Stiles about his troubled teenage years. Stiles will listen and then tell him about the year he lost his mom, about how he lost his way and nearly didn't find it back.)

(Family reunions will never be the same.)

(But for now, Peter laughs. Stiles has never been more proud of himself.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	7. About trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "When did you become my mother?" and "I trusted you."

Peter has wanted Stiles ever since he first laid his eyes on him.

( _Wrong._ )

( _Peter has wanted Stiles ever since he caught a whiff of his intoxicating scent. Out of it and all wolf instinct, he bit Scott because of it._ )

He observes the scene from the sidelines. Later, after Scott has wailed at Derek enough, Peter's sure he'll come, all self-righteous anger and indignation, to accuse him of manipulating his boy. (Because he's finally Peter's. All that loyalty, that deviousness, that intelligence, that... He's pack. PACK.) For once, he'll be wrong.

Because really, he didn't need to do anything. They did it all themselves. Even with Peter protecting him from the shadows, they hurt his boy, they lied to him, they used him and then discarded him, only to use him again.

"Cut the bullshit, Scott!" Stiles snarls. God, he would have made such a perfect wolf. Peter doesn't regret many things in his life, but this one? He does. So, so much. How he wishes that he had been better at that time. Would Stiles have said yes? They'll never know. "You lied to me! I trusted you!"

"There was no other way!"

"AND BECAUSE YOU LIED TO ME I NEARLY DIED! HEATHER IS IN THE HOSPITAL! IF I HAD KNOWN THIS WAS HAPPENING I WOULD HAVE NEVER OFFERED HER A LIFT HOME."

"I didn't know! I thought you didn't-"

"What, have any friends besides you?" Stiles cuts in coldly.

"That's not what- I was trying to protect you!"

"In what world is using someone as bait without their knowledge..." Stiles takes a deep breath. "This is useless, I'm out. Can you give me a lift to the hospital, Peter? My car is totaled."

"Sure," Peter replies easily, coming out of the shadows.

"You!" Scott snarls. "Stiles! You can't be thinking of going with him!"

"And when did you become my mother? Did I miss the memo?" Stiles snarks back at him. "I don't think I did."

"You can't trust him!"

"I can't trust _you_!"

"Stiles! You think he won't use you as bait?"

"Of course I will," Peter lilts, "but I'll tell you beforehand, because not doing that is just plain stupid." He tilts his head as if considering. "Or if for some really important and logical reason I can't tell you, I'll ensure you don't get hurt at all."

"Stiles!" Scott wails, trying to cut their moment short. It would be easy to take him, Peter thinks, but, angry or not, Stiles doesn't want that. Peter respects Stiles, so he won't do it. "Stiles!" he wails again, unaware of how close and yet so far he has come to a very quick but painful demise.

After another few seconds of locking his eyes with Stiles', he turns and leaves.

His boy follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	8. Pause for effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I miss you, but then I remember what an asshole you are and the feeling fades.”

Stiles hates his criminology professor. He hates him with the force of a thousand burning suns, a million exploding stars, a billion... He hates him more than Harris. Yes, that's a thing he never thought possible but it is. He hates him more than that bastard that used to torture him day after day back in Beacon Hills.

On his very first lecture, Mr. Bastard presented himself as a misogynistic, short-sighted, hypocritical, offensive, backwards racist, rendering his class into a horrified speechlessness five minutes in. Stiles, who had grown up with very strong women that could _destroy_ you with a look, much less a pinky -his grandma was a pilot during the war, his mom was an FBI agent that died in the line of duty (the exact circumstances will never be declassified, it was that bad), Lydia was a genius that could just as easily put on her fire red lipstick as make ground-breaking discoveries that would advance modern medicine like nothing before, Allison and Kira could defeat men twice their weight with their pinkies, while beaming like the Disney princesses that they were...- was not amused.

And he made it known.

Suffice to say that now Mr. Bastard hates Stiles just as much... and has made it known too. Very clearly.

Stiles has made the best out of a horrible situation and made a sport out of it. Which means that every class he has to find a way to end up on top, humiliating Mr. Bastard in the most respectful and vague way possible, so that he can't have Stiles expelled. He would say that it's becoming disgustingly easy if that didn't apply to exams too. Because while the sour face Mr. Bastard sports every time he has to hand him an A is hilarious and immensely satisfying, the whole situation is exhausting.

Which is why he has ordered pizza. Again. Right after having Chinese and Mexican food. The crappy, extremely cheap ones. If his dad knew, Stiles would never manage to make him have a tofu hamburger ever again.

" _You know that if you die because your arteries clogged irreversibly, it would be his win, right?_ " Peter quips over the phone.

"Shut up," Stiles grumbles because all his neurons have died a noble death after his last exam, just today. Rest in peace, you did well. Honor and glory is yours and all that jazz.

" _Oh, I feel the burn, sweetheart,_ " Peter deadpans. " _I've missed your sharp tongue so much. Clearly university life is doing you so much good. You've grown so much as a person..._ "

“Oh God... I miss you, but then I remember what an asshole you are and the feeling fades," Stiles snarks back. There's a knock on the door and his stomach rumbles in answer. He gets up to open it, fishing his wallet out on the way there. "I'm going to eat that pizza and enjoy- What the- Peter?!"

Peter, bags and something that suspiciously looks like a pizza box in hand, leans in and steals a kiss out of a still gaping Stiles. "Ah, there's the sharp tongue I was missing," he smirks before pushing him backwards until they're inside so he can close the door behind him.

Then he unceremoniously dumps the pizza box in the trash and before Stiles can protest, he starts taking fresh ingredients out of the bags to, apparently, cook in Stiles' crappy kitchen. Stiles' mouth closes with an audible click, no complaint coming out, and Peter smirks again.

(Stiles loves Peter's cooking, ok?)

"I hope you didn't scare Dennis into giving you that pizza."

"Dennis."

"Pizza delivery boy."

"Ah. And no, I didn't scare... Dennis. I even gave him a tip."

"Oh, cool. We like Dennis."

"We do?"

"We do," Stiles nods. Then he frowns. "Wait, that was a pause."

"What?"

"You paused. Who did you scare?"

"Your brain obviously needs proper nourishment, sweetheart. I didn't pause."

"You totally did!"

(On his next lecture, Mr. Bastard doesn't even look his way. He's perfectly polite, no sight of his misogynistic, short-sighted, hypocritical, offensive, backwards racist attitude to be seen.)

(He never bothers Stiles again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	9. The weight of duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You make me want things I can't have."

He shouldn't.

No, that's not it.

He _can't_.

He's a Seer and an Observer. What he _sees_ he must _observe_. That's the law. It's always his duty and honor, sometimes his joy, sometimes his burden. He's equality, balance, equilibrium, impartiality. He's unbiased, unswayed, unprejudiced. Always was, is, will be.

(Stiles is four years old the first time he _sees_. His mother drives them two states over, just in time to see a school bus swerve. He cries and cries as he _observes_ , his mom's hand tight like a vice around his wrist. Laws change, security tightens. Much, much later, he'll understand what the accident provoked, much like a twisted domino. At the time, he doesn't. He won't stop hearing their screams for a very long time either.)

(Stiles is five years old when they drive up north and _observe_ the birth of a Nemeton. Up to that point, the local supernatural life was about to die. Nowadays it's thriving. He still hasn't forgotten the almost tangible joy that filled the clearing, the childlike laughter that echoed in his mind as roots wrapped playfully around his ankles. Some days, the memory is the only thing that keeps him sane.)

("Listen, my love," his mom says, more than once and with a face that says clearly that she knows it by experience and won't ever forgive herself for whatever she did. "You cannot intervene, no matter what you _see_ , you hear me? You have to _observe_ too, you can't look away. No matter what happens, if you stop it, it will be ten times worse.")

( _See_ and _observe_. His duty, his honor, his burden, his joy.)

"Damn you," he whispers, deeply pained. "You make me want things I can't have. I hate you so much, Peter."

"Hmm?" Peter hums, almost asleep but running a hand distractedly over Stiles' sweaty back. "I love you too, sweetheart."

Stiles, who has just _seen_ the man he loves as a broken facsimile of what he is, feels the tears come and doesn't even try to fight them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	10. Epic levels of stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "How much of that did you hear?"

In the worst circumstances ever, Stiles realizes that he has somehow forgotten that stupidity can make normal humans extremely dangerous too. He's used to hunters that can shoot a perfectly centered hole through a flying penny, kanimas that can easily break through skin and bone with their tails, werewolves that can lift a car without breaking into a sweat, and so on and so on. In short, he's so used to supernatural levels of danger that...

There's no excuse. It's a stupid mistake through and through, he admits to himself, chagrined.

"Hmm," one of them hums nervously and Stiles' head throbs with the sound. "Dude, what do we do? Shit, this wasn't in the plan!"

Last he remembers, Stiles was chasing the pixies (because apparently being the only one that can see them at the moment means that everyone else sits the chase out, leaving Stiles to the pest control alone) down the street and then into an alley. The hit had come out of nowhere.

"Shut the fuck up, Jackson." Irony of ironies. Why do all Jacksons hate Stiles so much? Is it genetically engineered in their DNA? That would explain so damn much. "How much of that did you hear?"

 _What,_ he thinks.

" _What_ ," he asks a few seconds later, because apparently there's some kind of delay in the brain to mouth communication. Super.

"How. Much. Of. That. Did. You. Hear?" he enunciates slowly, as if his words are going to make any more sense because of that.

They don't. Stiles was chasing a swarm of pixies in broad daylight, trying to hide a bat and to avoid looking like a maniac, he wasn't paying attention to other people's conversations! They could have been sporting lime green and fuchsia tutus while dancing the Macarena sung in Chinese, and he wouldn't have even spared them a glance.

"Dude, dude, dude!" Jackson exclaims suddenly and Stiles groans as elephants start tap-dancing in his head. "We could, like, kidnap him!"

 _What,_ Stiles thinks.

" _What_ ," Unnamed Dude says.

" _What_ ," Stiles corroborates, message finally reaching his mouth after the long and arduous journey from his brain.

"Dude, it's way easier than robbing a bank! And he's already here, so the worst is done, you know?"

When Unnamed Dude's expression morphs into a considering one, Stiles throws an incredulous look at them. Then he has to bite his inner cheek to avoid pointing out how stupid their plan is. Like, epic levels of stupid.

"We'll be swimming in cash soon! That PS4 will be ours!" Jackson adds. "Call of Duty forever!"

 _What,_ Stiles thinks.

" _What_ ," he says a few seconds later.

"You, what's your name," Unnamed Dude snaps after finally making up his mind.

"Um... St-Steve Hale."

 _What_. Damn you brain!!!

"See? This is easy! Now we just... What do we do now?"

"How the fuck would I know?! We were going to rob a bank! I didn't come prepared for a kidnapping!"

"So... Um... I'm no expert, you know," Stiles starts because he's pretty sure these two either drank or smoked something to gather up their courage to rob the bank. He can tell they're stupid to begin with and, added to that, they're not firing on all cylinders. "But I'd say that you should call my dad."

"And how the fuck would we know his number, you idiot?"

For a moment, Stiles regrets not giving them his real name. Would they have been stupid enough to call the sheriff directly? Would they have been stupid enough to call _the police station_? Ah, well, that ship has sailed, no use in mourning it.

"Um... It's in my... phone?"

"Oh!" Jackson exclaims before his face brightens. "Thanks, dude!"

"Um, sure."

"Under which name is it?"

 _What,_ Stiles thinks, again.

" _What_ ," he says a few seconds later. Again.

(Stiles is getting very tired of this shit.)

"Your dad."

"Obviously he'll be under Dad, you stupid fuck," Unnamed Dude snaps.

"Ah, um... actually no," Stiles cringes internally about what he's about to say. So, so sorry dad. "That's my boyfriend. We're, you know, into kinky stuff."

"Fuck, ew! TMI, dude! You're sick!"

"Hey, don't hate, man!" Stiles protests.

"Ok, whatever," Unnamed Dude cuts in impatiently. "Which one is it then?"

"Um, smarmy bastard."

" _What_."

Stiles shrugs. "I call my boyfriend that during sex, you know. I can't," he finishes the sentence with another shrugh. "What if I mess up and call my dad about sexy stuff?"

"TMI, DUDE!!!" 

"FUCK, WHATEVER, JUST CALL ALREADY!"

"Ok, ok! Hold your horses man!" He waits until the call connects. "Dad, I've been kidnapped."

Jackson wrenches the phone from his hand abruptly. "IF YOU WANT TO EVER SEE HIM ALIVE AGAIN, YOU'LL BRING ONE THOUS- NO, ONE MILLION DOLLARS TO CECILE PARK IN ONE HOUR."

And he hangs up.

Ten minutes later, Peter slams Unnamed Dude's head against the wall as he unceremoniously throws Jackson to the ground. Then he raises an eyebrow at Stiles.

"Not a word," Stiles grunts.

"Stiles, my dear son," Peter starts.

" _Oh my God! Go. Die._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	11. The consequences of following tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "This is why we can't have nice things."

"It's tradition, dear," Stiles mimics, scornful but at the same time breathless, as he runs through the woods as fast as he can. Which, admittedly, is not much, because he's wearing a tunic with a three meter long tail that keeps getting caught in everything even though he's carrying most of it in his arms. He'd take it off, but he has _nothing underneath_. "I know you don't understand but it won't hurt you to at least try, she said! The patronizing b-"

He trips and falls face first to the ground. He grunts as the rocks scratch his face and knees. He ignores the pain and doesn't waste time in getting up to continue running.

God, but how he hates Peter's family. He's not even exaggerating. It's not mere dislike, it's _hate_. The only ones he can vaguely tolerate are the kids, but they're irritating pests on a good day too, so that's not saying much. And ok, Stiles' family isn't much better, with their silent disapproval and refusal to help, but hey, at least they aren't outright boycotting? That has to count, right? _Right???_

He makes it to the edge of the Preserve and leans on a tree exhaustedly. A wave of _respectprideapprovalcelebration_ invades him and he pats the tree's bark in answer. He spends the next several minutes trying to control his breathing and his temper.

Then he goes to where he parked his jeep and finds out a tree has fallen over it, totalling it.

Stiles gapes before letting out an outraged scream. "See?" he whines as he pets the poor thing. He had just had it painted and fixed the engine. "This is why we can't have nice things." He hugs it. "I swear to you, you will be avenged."

He removes his bat through the window and calls the tow, explaining what happened. They say they'll take care of it and Stiles thanks the gods that he doesn't have to deal with that too. He waits for an hour until they show up to find Stiles in his almost naked glory and about to pop a vessel because he's so done.

" _Don't,_ " he says simply, twirling the bat.

And they don't dare ask.

They do offer a lift and he refuses politely. (The kind of polite that comes accompanied by a smile that screams serial killer, so it's no wonder they look relieved.) It's tradition and he has to make it to Peter without help. Normally, by this point he'd have said fuck it and cheated like a pirate, but not this time. He's going to respect tradition so that they can't fight against this anymore. And then? Then they're going to _pay_. All of them.

So, for the next hour, he walks bare-footed and in the dark, using the time to catalogue and study what the experience with the Nemeton has changed in him. He has a feeling that it will come in handy, after all. They wanted him to do this so badly? Well, let them _feel_ the results.

He crosses paths with his dad first. Stiles will give it to the man, for all his flaws, he's not stupid. He takes a look at Stiles' thunderous face and doesn't even try to speak. The Hale cousin he sees next is not that intelligent and when he tries to stop him, he gets a bat to the knees that leaves him howling in pain. Stiles is all for equal opportunity, so the aunt that comes next gets the same treatment.

The message seems to have reached the fort, because when Stiles makes it to the front of the Hale house, no one, Stilinski or Hale, tries to stop him.

"You've made the message clear, Spark Stilinski," Lenore Hale, the alpha, hisses.

Stiles doesn't answer immediately. He ignores her in favor of studying Peter. He's tied and Stiles knows him well enough to know he's livid under his aloof facade.

"You know what?" he replies finally. " _I don't think I really did._ " As if on cue, all the windows of the cars _and_ the house burst out. "But don't worry, _I'll remedy that_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please~


	12. Make me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Soulmate AU + “Make me.”
> 
> Gosh, I took forever to answer this prompt… It’s just… I drew a blank? I got 4 prompts in my inbox and my mind went blank with every and each of them. It's not really surprising with the stress I've been handling irl lately but it's so damn frustrating anyways 8T. Thankfully, I'm not blocked anymore, but it was so damn difficult to write… Anyways, I thought this was going to be a happy/funny one, but it turned out angsty but with a happy (sorta?) ending. Hope you like it?

"You must be Stiles," Peter Hale croons faux sweetly, his scarred face entirely vacant except for his eyes, which hold a fire of insanity so bright and strong that it could burn the whole hospital to the ground in mere seconds.

Stiles shivers, horrified, and barely hears Derek shouting at him through the phone. He's only dimly aware of the irony of that analogy, because those four words have branded the skin right above his heart since his birth. He's waited to hear them ever since he was old enough to understand what they meant, what having a soulmate meant. At his lowest, he gained strength from them, managed to go through everything that life threw at him thanks to those four words written in a beautiful cursive that he's never managed to replicate. Now he feels like he's choking on thin air, the panic raising like a tidal wave that's threatening to drown him.

Stiles shouldn't open his mouth, shouldn't talk to him. He shouldn't give him the words that tie them together. "Make me," he involuntarily snarls in challenge when Peter takes a step forward.

Peter stops immediately and his eyes shine a bright red. That red disappears when he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He takes another step forward and...

...Derek, after pushing Stiles away, slams into him with a snarl.

(Afterwards, Stiles keeps his mouth shut. Doesn't tell them that Peter is his, that he is Peter's. That somehow, in a cosmic joke that no one will find funny, the person that changed Scott's life irreversibly and that killed Derek's sister is his other half, his perfect match and all those things the sappy Valentine's commercials tend to spout.)

(He wonders what does it make him, having a soulmate like Peter, what is it that makes them a perfect match. He wonders how was he before the fire.) 

\---

Stiles is trembling. He's terrified but also oh, so, so angry. Angry at life, mainly, for dealing him these shitty cards that he can do nothing with but lose.

He stands his ground, covering Lydia and providing a protective wall between her and _him_. His soulmate. (Stiles had never been one to lie to himself, no matter the situation. He thinks it stupid and ultimately useless and pointless.) The irony doesn't escape him. He's protecting his crush from his soulmate. She said a weird combination of the words in his heart once, in kindergarten. She was (is) smart, beautiful and strong. He was convinced for a long time that they were soulmates, destined to be together against all odds. He loved her for it, even though she didn't spare him even a glance. He knows better now, but old habits die hard (he used to love her so much and he still loves her in a way), so here he is, protecting her against his own soulmate.

Stiles keeps repeating the word in his mind. Soulmate, soulmate, soulmate. _Soulmate_. He can't help it, even though the word hurts horribly each and every time.

"You must be Stiles," Peter growls but doesn't touch him.

Stiles wants to scream. He knows life is unfair. He knows it in his own flesh! From the marks his mother left in his arms when he was seven years old to the scar in his scalp, now mostly gone and what remains hidden by hair, that the empty bottle of whisky that his dad threw at him when he was eight years old left. _He knows_. All those things just made him stronger, hardened his skin until it was impenetrable! Or so he thought, because now he feels... He just wants to scream.

"Make me," he snaps angrily instead, because he thought _this_ , he would get. No small lettering, no conditions. His soulmate. His perfect match. "Make me," he repeats, growling it through his teeth.

(Much later, he finds himself stranded with his jeep, his keys destroyed and useless. Peter didn't harm even a hair on his head. The skin of his wrist where Peter touched him feels warm still. Stiles said no and he listened.)

(He doesn't know how to feel about that.)

\---

His throw is flimsy at best. His heart thunders in his chest, threatening to rip it open with each beat. Nausea crawls up his throat as the Molotov cocktail soars through the air and he can't breathe. A ring starts piercing his ears and his hands, his everything shakes.

Peter grabs it easily and Stiles finds he can breathe again, if barely. A wet and cold sensation invades him. He can't stop trembling.

Then, out of nowhere, an arrow pierces the Molotov Cocktail and Stiles can't even scream as Peter goes on fire.

"You must be Stiles," Peter screams and screams. Stiles tries to run towards him, but Scott grabs him and holds him back. He forces himself to not take his eyes off his blazing figure. This is his penance, to remember in vivid detail how he helped kill his soulmate. "You must be Stiles!"

"Make me," Stiles whispers brokenly, head in his hands and knees to the ground, when Derek kills his soulmate for good.

(Peter was hurting the people Stiles loves. Peter was crazy. Peter was killing people, justified or not. Peter was... Peter was... Peter was Stiles'. His soulmate, his perfect match. And now he's gone and he'll never know why.)

(Stiles can't look at anyone as he leaves. If he does, he won't be able to ignore the need to gauge Derek's new red eyes, the need to slash Scott's own throat when he whines about Derek taking his chance to be normal again. This is his fault, he knows, because he never told them about Peter being his soulmate. But somehow, he doubts it would have made any difference.)

\---

Stiles feels empty. He doesn't understand, he barely knew Peter. He only met him a handful of times and none of them were good. The feelings he associates with the man are anger, bitterness, fear, pain, and none of those are good either. So why is he so broken? Why does this feel worse than... He doesn't understand, it's been more than a month. He should be over losing someone he barely knew, soulmate or not. He managed just fine before meeting him, so it's not like losing him is, well, a big loss, all things considered. He has more pressing matters to pay attention to, after all. Matters of a murderous lizard-y nature. He doesn't have time to mourn something that he never had to begin with. It would be absurd, in any case. Pft, how can anyone mourn something that they never had? This is just the same. Absurd, stupid. Stuuuupid.

And Stiles' not stupid, so he refuses to do it. No, no mourning for Stiles.

No.

No mourning for Stiles.

_You must be Stiles._

He swallows thickly. "Make me," he whispers.

(Lying to oneself is stupid, pointless and useless.)

(He asks Derek, just once, about how was Peter before. His head gets closely acquainted with the wall abruptly because of it. He never asks again and just finds out on his own. It's a bad idea, it doesn't make him feel any better.)

\---

Stiles stumbles out from the Argent's house wanting to burn it to the ground, no matter who's still inside. It would be poetic justice, wouldn't it? To end the story just like how it started. People like the Argents shouldn't exist. They only bring pain and destruction wherever they go, down to their last member. Look at Allison. Obviously there's something not quite right in their heads. Stiles can understand destroying the people that harmed your family, but this? She hasn't even bothered finding out all the facts, she's just lashing out at everything in her path, whether it benefits her or not. It's just violence for the sake of violence. Stiles can't condone that.

Stiles won't burn the house to the ground today, but only because Erica and Boyd are still inside and, no matter the grievances he has with them, they don't deserve to be burned alive. He may not be able to save them right now, injured and vulnerable as he is, but he can tell Derek and let him deal with it. He won't risk his neck for them because they're not his responsibility and he doesn't owe them anything, but he can make sure to pass along the message.

"You must be Stiles," a voice says from the darkness, emotionless and stilted.

Stiles' legs tremble and then give out on him. He doesn't even register the pain of the impact against the gravel. His heartbeat speeds up to dizzying heights and suddenly he can't breathe. He swallows thickly and no, he's not going to cry. It has to be a hallucination, people don't come back from the dead. And even if they did, Peter is a psychopath and the world (Stiles' world, his people) is better without him.

"You must be Stiles," he insists, coming to the light, a feral and intense quality added to the words.

Peter, Peter, Peter. He was a lawyer before, and Talia Hale's left hand. And, according to the people Stiles talked to, he was as ruthless an enforcer as an attorney. Incredibly intelligent, he graduated valedictorian in high school and in university. Wicked sense of humor some of his classmates said, asshole, said others. Not to be messed with, all of them said. Peter, Peter, Peter.

"You must be Stiles," he repeats, advancing towards him.

Peter, who even at his worst, never hurt Stiles. Who, clearly not at his best, heard a no and backed off.

"You must be Stiles," he whispers, now almost at touching distance, his palm up and inviting.

Peter, who had his family killed and instead of hiding like Laura or Derek did, he sought to destroy the ones responsible. That was his first thought upon waking up. Because he wasn't able to save them, but he could avenge them. Destroy them for touching what was his.

Just like Stiles would have.

"Make me," he answers, voice shaky, as he reaches to take the offered hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some love pls?
> 
> This one has a Russian translation [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6595472). ❤❤❤


	13. Sweet, sweet Karma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I shouldn't be in love with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was stupidly fun to write lol... even if it took me forever. I've had a writer's block the size of a galaxy since January and I barely managed to cough out the last prompt before this one. *Fingers crossed that it's over*

"Why?" Peter whisper-moans dramatically as they advance through the darkened tunnel, half-crouching down and slowly but surely approaching a fully-crouching down status. " _Why?_ It just doesn't make sense, I shouldn't be in love with you, why am I even? You're a nuclear hazard, my dear sweet-cheeks, and a trouble magnet. You br-"

" _Excuse me???_ " Stiles hisses, incredulous, and then grunts as his head collides with the top of the tunnel. He halts, swears lowly but colorfully for a moment and then continues walking forward with an aggravated snarl. " _I_ shouldn't be in love with you, why am _I_ even? This is your fault, my choco-muffintop, it was your idea. How-"

"Excuse _you_??? First, what muffintop?! I resent that. Deeply. Second, no, it wasn't, my sugarplum fairy. I distinctly remember saying no. You-"

"You said _no, well, maybe_ , my sweet honey-bunny, not-"

"That still has a _no_ , oh, spark that lights my candle!"

"Which gets negated by the _well, maybe_ that came right afterwards, oh, howl that echoes in my soul!"

A kelpie springs from the darkness right at Stiles. Peter has his claws embedded in it with a mighty snarl before it can even get inside his personal bubble, which is awesome, but the resulting spray splatters heavily on Stiles, which is not. He stops, closing his eyes, and then takes a deep breath to contain a snarl of his own. Seconds later, he feels Peter's handkerchief on his cheek when the man uses it to clean Stiles' face.

"There, there, oh, center of my universe." Peter croons, saccharine sweet.

"Thank you, oh, rose king of my secret garden of life," he bites out after a few seconds, opening his eyes to glare at the answering snort.

They continue down the tunnel, following the pointing light of Stiles' spell. A few minutes later, Stiles' head collides once again against the top of the tunnel with an echoing sound. He bites his tongue to contain the profanities at its tip and his whole body shakes with the effort.

"Still not my fault, _dear_ ," Peter sing-songs, a heavily implied _it's yours_ evident in the tone.

His hand closes around Stiles wrist and the pain slowly drains away, but, while Stiles is grateful for the gesture, he's way past the point of feeling charitable. " _At this point, it will be worse to keep, quote, rebelling like two-year-old toddlers, unquote, so let's just save ourselves some pain and let them do what they want and be done with it,_ " he mimics in a whiney voice before returning to his normal pitch, "you said, _honey_ , which makes this totally your fault. I was completely fine giving them a big fuck y-"

"I did _not_ say that, and much less in that whiney voi-"

An _at this point, it will be worse to keep, quote, rebelling like two-year-old toddlers, unquote, so let's just save ourselves some pain and let them do what they want and be done with it_ , comes from Stiles' phone, crisp clear and loud.

"See? I didn't," Peter says.

"You didn't-" Stiles starts, his bitchface truly epic. He takes a deep breath. "Enlighten me, please. What exactly did we just h-"

"I didn't say _whatever they want_."

"Oh, excuse me, oh, love of my life. Of course, that's an important distinction," Stiles snarks, heavily sarcastic.

"Yes, excuse _you_ , because it _is_ , oh, light of my world." He reaches to make Stiles duck his head before it collides with the tunnel. Again. Stiles curses anyways. Then he swings his bat against another kelpie before it can get the jump on Peter. When he's done and it's not moving anymore, he curses some more as he proceeds down the tunnel once again. Peter keeps talking as if nothing happened. "The word whatever implies they can do _whatever they want_ and not _what they want within reason_. And you're the one that said _by the lake? Yeah! A dream come true!_ Hence, your fault."

"I did _not_!"

 _... by the lake? Yeah! A dream come true!_ resounds in the tunnel, but from Peter's phone this time. The tone of Stiles' voice clearly conveys a frazzled, manic quality, sarcasm in its purest form.

"Oh, for the love of..." Stiles growls.

"Ha!" Peter crows triumphantly, because he knows he's won. Then he seems to think it's undignified because he schools his expression into something more aloof. "But do not worry, oh, moon of my sky. I will only use this as leverage for the next ten years or so."

"First of all, you're a lying liar who lies," Stiles hisses like an angry cat, because he knows he'll milk this until the day they die... just like Stiles would have. "And second, I was clearly being sarcastic, oh, refuge that keeps me warm in a snowstorm, water that lets me survive in a desolate desert, delicious food after a year of Scott's cooking!"

"Well, that's true," Peter replies flippantly. "But you still said it. Hence, your fault."

"I swear to God, snuggle-"

"How are you two getting married?" an ancient Hale grand-aunt he's never spoken to says judgementally from just ahead. "I knew we shouldn't have allowed this to continue. In my days, young man-"

"-wolf... Ah, yeah, it's their fault. How could I possibly have forgotten that," Stiles deadpans, the anger draining out of him abruptly.

He looks around and grins vindictively when he sees all the guests piled upon each other because apparently the mermaids had very little space to hold land people and they had to make do with what they had. They look like sardines in a can in their prisons. Serves them right. Talia is being squashed between two of Stiles' very own grand-aunts, who had been drinking heavily hours before the ceremony even started.

Then he spots Deaton, looking none too happy in his little spot against the wall. His grin widens.

"Well," he starts. His dad, who seems to have caught on to what he's about to do, seems amused and resigned to his fate. He should, Stiles thinks uncharitably, all of them, Stilinskis, Hales and friends in between, have been downright horrible in their own particular ways. "All the family is here. And we're by the lake... sort of."

"The decorations are certainly unique and the setting is so special I'm sure no one will forget this... ever," Peter continues, following his lead. His smile is so wide that it should start hurting soon, if it's not already. "You did want a grey-green color scheme, Talia, sister dearest."

"Peter-" she growls in warning.

"Exactly!" Stiles barrels on, undeterred. "And we've followed tradition too. We're coated in the blood of our enemies."

"Mr. Stilinski, nowadays-" Deaton starts.

"Well, more like we're both coated in the blood of _yours_ , Stiles. I never-"

Stiles turns around and leaves through where they came from. They hear something hitting the wall and then cursing follows. Peter smiles genially at the guests while he waits. Minutes later, Stiles comes back and splatters the only part of Peter's dress shirt that was still white.

"There you go," he nods.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

"Anytime, love." He grins. "Now, two things. One, grandma Esther, I'm happy to inform you that while we struck seafood out of the menu due to allergies, we now have plenty of that literally lying around." He winks at her. Peter chokes out a laugh and then coughs to cover it. "And two, let's get going. You did preach on the importance of punctuality, uncle Brian, I wouldn't like to disappoint you."

"Certainly!" Peter nods, still grinning. "And it's exactly the time on the dot, look that that!"

Deaton takes a look at their smiles and sighs. Then he proceeds with the ceremony, drowning the sounds of the protests around him. By the time he's done, everyone has fallen silent and accepted their fate. They're trapped under who knows how many litres of water, inside the lake, inside a prison from which not even the werewolves have managed to get out. Either they shut up and they're let go (hopefully soon, because the couple seem especially vindictive today), or they keep protesting and prolong the inevitable. They choose the first option. 

Eventually.

(And they're let go.)

(Eventually.)

(Karma, Stiles thinks gleefully. Sweet, sweet Karma.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimme some love~


	14. Returning the favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Police AU + "I swear it won't happen again."

_He smiles genially at Stiles, teeth white and perfect. They contrast heavily with the red coating his face. His hands lay harmlessly at his side, also a deep crimson and dripping. ___

__

____

_"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, deputy," he lilts in an extremely polite tone of voice. "I swear it won't happen again." ___

____

____

_Stiles, gun ready, studies him. After a moment, he raises it and takes aim._

_(Stiles doesn't feel remorse. He killed countless people and he deserved it.)_

__

_(Even if it hadn't been "countless", he would have done the same.)_

\---

It's not even lunch-time and Stiles is already done. Not 100% done, mind you, his current percentage is at an even 87% but steadily climbing. Irritation is bubbling under his skin at a low simmer but that's nothing new, he can handle that. He normally wakes up at an average 65.5-68%, after all. The problem is that today he's shadowing the station's biggest douchenozzles and he can only take so much stupidity, he's only human.

Well... Fine, admittedly, his tolerance for willful idiocy and redneck tendencies has always been pretty low, but he's an adult, ok? He learned to curb his answering viciousness by sixth grade. By now he's a pro, ok?

Wilkins subtly elbows Donner and then sends that subtlety straight to hell by nodding obviously towards the object of their interest, both of them adopting that classic cop pose as they lean on their patrol car, crossed arms and all. Stiles keeps his face neutral and a groan in, but it's a struggle. God, he hates these people and not for the first time (or the last, he's sure), he wonders what the hell is he doing here.

He never wished to be a policeman. Never. Even as a little kid (before everything went down to hell in a fruit basket, when everything was still nice, happy and unicorn fart multicolored), he never babbled about being one. And god, _did_ he babble. Non-stop, tireless for hours and hours! He gushed about being an astronaut, he played a superhero in his games, a fireman, a doctor, a spy, a football player! He pictured himself as a detective, an archeologist, a famous chef and many things more, but he never dreamed of following in his father's footsteps. Strange, people would think, but people are stupid, so what do they fucking know? Even back then his dad worked a lot of hours and, deep down, Stiles blamed his job for stealing his daddy from him. Naive, he knows now, because he'd end up learning that his dad would never need much incentive to choose other things or people over Stiles, but back then? He resented his dad's job with all the force of his little toddler heart. His dad and mom found it funny, thought it a call for attention and not really true. And maybe it _was_ a call for attention, but he really _did_ resent (and later hate) it. Still does with a passion that hasn't diminished with the years.

Which is ironic because here he is, almost one year into that career and still the rookie of the station.

"The nerve of that fucking bastard!" Donner mutters angrily to Wilkins, and Stiles sneers before he can catch himself. He busies himself with checking his service belt to cover it, but mainly he's glad that they're idiots that dismiss him as a harmless rule-following idiot. (God, just like in high school, gaining and then maintaining that reputation has been excruciating, even if it's an effort that will inevitably pay up in the end. After all, it did back then when he put Jackson's Porsche inside the pool, pulled a _who me?_ when he was nearly caught red-handed and it didn't even cross his teacher's mind that he was indeed the culprit. _And he had the keys in his hand_.) He wonders if this shitty town has turned him into a psychopath, because he keeps picturing in vivid detail how it would look and feel to smash their heads into the concrete again and again. Messy, but oh so satisfying. "He did it and now he struts around like a fucking peacock..."

"He's taunting us," Wilkins growls lowly. It takes all of Stiles' willpower not to point out that this is a fucking public place and that anyone has the right to _strut around like a fucking peacock_ however much they want, so long as they don't break the law. But the man's not strutting anyways, he's just carrying his groceries to his car, for fuck's sake! And that's without taking into account that they're the ones that sought him out, not the other way around. Wilkins shouldn't even be here to begin with. They're supposed to go in pairs and Stiles was the one that today got the dubious pleasure of having Donner as a partner. "We should bring him down a peg or two."

"More like a thousand."

Stiles feels his lips curl derisively and fights it before it shows in his face. This can't be called anything but harassment. It doesn't matter if they think that the man is a murderer and a dirty cop... which, don't get Stiles started on that, because it's utter bullshit. How did these people earn their badges? In a raffle? In a cereal box? What was his dad thinking? Because he was the one that started to investigate his own partner before he died in the very same fire that took said partner's whole family's lives. And of course, even though there's no evidence at all that points in Peter Hale's direction, the force (the whole town) unanimously assumed that he provoked the fire to kill the, quote, _noble and brave_ officer that was about to uncover all his machiavellian misdeeds and then got a whole lot of money in one fell swoop. Because if their very own sheriff suspected, it must be true! It's so, so very stupid that it makes Stiles' stomach turn.

Stiles still remembers every single detail of that night. The ring of the doorbell, the grim-looking officer waiting at the door, the way he worded his message, the way Stiles felt after each word. Numb.

He knew. The moment the doorbell rang, he knew something was wrong. He hadn't seen his dad in a week, and, before that, it had been two weeks. They had been together in the same house a grand total of three times that month.

Stiles hated him. He'd resented him ever since mom started to get sick and his dad had to choose between Stiles and her. He'd hated him ever since she died and he had to choose between Stiles and the alcohol, and then hated him even more ever since his dad had to choose between his work and the alcohol or Stiles.

(Spoiler alert: Stiles wasn't the one he chose.)

(What a surprise.)

That day, with an officer ready to console a distraught teenager in front of him, he simply felt nothing. They called it shock but Stiles knew better. Because, in the end, by that time he hadn't asked much from his dad. He just wanted him to be there, if only in name, so that Stiles had at least a house to come back to because the rest he could manage by himself just fine. And there he went and died before his sixteenth birthday, leaving him to be fostered by Mr. Lahey, his dad's first partner when both of them were rookies and trusted friend.

Stiles had never liked him and that didn't change with more interaction between them. In fact, he simply got a tangible reason for that dislike, which turned into disgust pretty quickly. He also didn't think he could hate his dad even more than he already did now that he was dead and he couldn't do anything more to warrant it, but he was wrong.

"Fuck, I wish we could go back to that time when cops could solve these kinds of things internally."

If that was the case, both of these idiots' bodies would have been found in a ditch a long time ago. Stiles would have made sure of that.

"He wouldn't smile like that anymore, the sonofabitch," Wilkins snorts.

Not like he's smiling now in any case, you stupid fucker. God, seriously. Stiles can't take it anymore. It's excruciating. If these people looked at the evidence for just a few seconds, they would... Well, ok, not a few seconds. They're stupidly stupid after all. _But_ if they got their heads out of their asses and remembered even a ten percent of what they learned at the academy, they would know that Hale didn't provoke that fire and wasn't a dirty cop. Was there something suspicious about him in his personal life? Well, yeah, but professionally? Him, a dirty cop? No. Definitely no. Where his dad got the idea, Stiles doesn't know.

(But then again, John Stilinski trusted Lahey, so Stiles doesn't have much trust in his dad's ability to judge people.)

"We should..." Wilkins starts before cutting himself off abruptly. He sends a look towards Stiles, who makes sure to look as innocent as a newborn baby. "... go back."

"What?!" Donner protests. "What do you mean go-" He lets out an oomph when Wilikins elbows him, throwing a look at Stiles, who has to fight an aggravated sigh at having to feign not having caught the obvious gesture. "Um, yeah, you're right. Patrol's over. Let's head back."

As they leave, Stiles locks his eyes into Hale's for a brief second. Stiles has talked to him a grand total of two times. The first when he came to pick his dad up with the patrol car on their first day as partners, coffee cups in both hands (just for himself, because one was empty and he thrust it into Stiles' hands to dispose of as soon as he opened the door) and a smarmy smirk on his face. The second when Stiles went to his hospital room, intent on making it look like an accident -because John Stilinski was a shitty dad, alcoholic, workaholic and neglectful, but he was Stiles' nonetheless, and, all things considered, his presence, ghostly or not, had made his life easier rather than not- depending on what the man said. Ironically, Hale didn't actually say much that day, but it was more than enough. He snarled at Stiles, with an ugly expression that was more defensive than aggressive, and let out a _have you come to finish what he started?_ that Stiles didn't answer to. He just stood there at the door for a few seconds, taking in Hale's scarred face and his body language, and then left.

Stiles blinks and Hale is already gone.

Suspicious? Yes. Murderer? Maybe, but not of his family. Dirty cop? No.

(Stiles would know.)

\---

The thing is that he doesn't let anyone take what's his, whether he actually likes the thing or not. And even if that wasn't the case, whoever set the Hale house on fire, killing his dad along with the entire Hale family sans Peter (though not for the lack of trying on that count), sent Stiles' life from Badmaybemehville straight into hell for more than two years.

And Stiles can hold a grudge like no other.

Peter didn't kill his dad or his own family, but Stiles was sure he knew something, so he's been tracking his movements through the traffic feed and with a facial recognition program. Which is why he caught the exact moment, pizza slice and soda in hand, when the man was abducted from the street, and now here he is, inside the Argent house with blood almost up to his ankles and with a man at gun point.

Seriously, the bad guys and their monologues. It's ridiculous. Although... well, it gave Stiles the information he needed, so maybe he shouldn't be dissing the evil monologue after all.

Peter smiles genially at Stiles, teeth white and perfect. They contrast heavily with the red coating his face. His hands lay harmlessly at his side, also a deep crimson and dripping.

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, deputy," he lilts in an extremely polite tone of voice. "I swear it won't happen again."

Stiles, gun ready, studies him. After a moment, he raises it and takes aim.

Stiles doesn't feel remorse about putting a bullet through Gerard Agent's chest. He killed countless people and he deserved it. The man falls, howling, and Stiles lets him reach the rifle before taking a head shot.

(But even if it hadn't been "countless", he would have done the same.)

Peter makes an appreciative noise and Stiles shushes him. He calls the station and the moment they pick up, he makes his voice go panicky as he informs them of what happened.

"Scamper," he tells Peter, who raises his eyebrows surprised but doesn't let out a sound.

He doctors the scene carefully, knowing the exact response times of the police by now.

A few days later, Lahey is arrested for the murder of Kate Argent. The community is shocked to learn that Gerard and his daughter dealt drugs and that Lahey tried to take over and it went wrong. (Lahey, of course, pleads not guilty at first, but since they're fine-combing through all his cases, a lot of things are coming to the light. He has no chance of escaping prison.) General consensus is that Stiles was at the wrong place, at the wrong time, but that he performed admirably. They're sad to let him go due to the trauma of what Gerard did to him.

(Yes, Stiles can hold a grudge like no other.)

\---

One year later, Stiles is at a cafe. News has broken out about a certain inmate being killed in prison because it was leaked that he abused children. Stiles barely spares the article a glance and continues working. Being a white hat is way more boring than being a black hat, but it pays well and lets him keep his own schedule, so he won't complain. And right now he has a security system to check for a stupidly big amount of money. Boring or not, it will pay the bills for quite while and it will take him an hour at the most, anyways.

The chair in front of him scrapes the floor as it's pulled out and Peter Hale sits without asking permission. He has two coffee cups in his hands and a smarmy smirk on his face. He places one of them in front of Stiles.

It's full this time.

Stiles snorts and Peter's smirk widens into a smile. He looks well rested and, unlike that time, he _is_ strutting around like a peacock now. Stiles hides a smirk with the coffee cup.

"Hello, Stiles," he greets him by his nickname, as if they've always done it.

"Hello, Peter," Stiles snorts again, doing the same because why the hell not at this point.

Peter grins triumphantly. Stiles snorts for a third time and continues drinking his coffee.

(Months later, Peter will still be there and Stiles will realize that he's been shanghaied into a relationship without even noticing and he'll snort again.)

(But for now he drinks his coffee, amused.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out slightly... well XD. Hope you enjoyed~


	15. So done it's charred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

The thing is that Stiles is done, ok? Done. As in 100% done, no more fucks to give. A "fucks have been discontinued and will never be found on the shelves again" kind of done. He bites now, not just growls. Peter finds it hilarious at this point, but hey, all of us have our own coping mechanisms.

It needs to stop, he can't take it anymore. All kinds of creatures keep crawling to Beacon Hills at all hours of the day and he hasn't slept a full night since... Since... See that? He can't even remember. He's so done with this shit it's not even funny. Not that it ever was, mind you, but if there was a snowball chance in hell of it ever being funny, the time has passed now. Actually, not now. The time passed when they got a water dragon in the lake. A dragon. In the lake. The damn lake was like a kiddie bathtub for it. Peter started laughing as soon as he saw it and no.

Just.

No.

_No._

Which is why he's here, in the dark, in the preserve, clad in nothing but his birthday suit and with runes painted all over his body (including his butt crack and other various unmentionable places, and god, wasn't that... _difficult_ to accomplish), trying to find the fucking Nemeton.

It's been three hours already.

Has he mentioned how done he is? He feels like 100% done doesn't do it justice. 900%? 1000%? Is that a thing? It surely must be, because that's what he is right now, 1000% done.

"I swear to fucking god," he snarls to the skies above, like a bad Disney villain, "this is going to happen whether you like it or not, so either you let me in right now and you go back to multicolored-unicorn-rainbow-farts happy, or I burn you to the ground and spit on your grave with stale beer spit for the rest of my natural life!"

Three hours later, the Nemeton is purified and Stiles is walking back to the jeep, still naked, still painted, still so done he's charred meat. Ugh. Bad mental picture. No. He's going to sleep now. For the next day or two. Whoever tries to stop him...

For fuck's sake.

Fuck his life.

Just.

Fuck.

Because of course.

He's buck naked, painted with blood runes from head to toe, and there it is, the whole pack. Right beside his jeep. Stiles' eye twitches. Then he remembers he's out of fucks to give and just goes to his jeep to clean himself up enough to not dirty his upholstery and then go back home to sleep.

They stare, speechless.

They look at each other.

They look at Scott.

Scott looks at Stiles, open-mouthed.

Stiles leaves.

And he sleeps.

Finally.

He wakes up a day later to two tiny one-tailed kitsunes sleeping in his hair, little water nymphs in his fish tank, fairies in his cupboard, sleeping in his coffee cups. A smiling selkie delivers a homemade hot chocolate and fudge brownie to his door at breakfast and a girl that he's pretty sure that is either a vampire or photosensitive delivers delicious-looking chicken fajitas by lunch.

His dad, who is just finishing a coffee before going to work, stays silent through the whole exchange. Stiles, who even after almost a full day of sleep is still done, just munches on his fajitas after making sure they're not poisoned. The doorbell rings and their ancient neighbor is there, homemade cupcakes in hand. After a moment of silence, his dad steals one on his way out.

"Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?" Stiles calls out drolly and then hums as he takes a bite of the apple-cinnamon goodness.

"Have you killed someone? Wait, no, let me rephrase that. Have you killed someone I should know about?"

"No, dad."

"Then I don't want to know," he says dryly as he gets inside the patrol car.

Stiles snorts and goes back inside. Peter is stealing a fajita when he gets to the kitchen. Stiles rolls his eyes and leaves the cupcake box on the counter.

"Do I even want to know why they are bringing me food, Peter?"

"Well, sweetheart, how should I put this?" Peter lilts, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. "In quite a masterful move, you've become the protector of the land. I'm so proud."

"Protector," Stiles repeats, deadpan. "I thought the alpha-"

"You're above the alpha now, love."

Stiles is so done. So fucking done. No, he's not anyone's protector, he refuses. He won't accept this. A fairy flies towards him with a sugar cube and he takes it with a thanks. She beams and leaves, back to her Deadpool one fingered salute cup.

Fuck his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't drawn anything in along time, but I kinda want to draw the dragon in the lake and Stiles with an epic bitchface (with Peter on the background cackling) and the cutesy fairy inside the Deadpool cup lol. 
> 
> Also, I really wanna play with the idea of protector!Stiles...
> 
> Gimme some love, I need it today ^^;
> 
> EDIT: Oh my god!!!! Someone did a [cover](https://feelingsdusk.tumblr.com/post/171970111309/for-the-chapter-15-prompt-that-feelingsdusk-did-it)! Isn't it gorgeous????


	16. In the early hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "It's three in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... I've been sick as a dog for days. I've had to miss work, it was that bad. Today was the first day back and it was the worst. Not only I was really tired, but my boss was pissy af -_- Sigh.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this one.

Stiles wakes up. It's not a gradual process but it's not a jarring one either. He's just asleep one moment and completely awake the next.

"It's two in the morning," Peter offers softly. It still rings too loud in their silent corridor, but Stiles knows he's being hypersensitive. "Give or take."

"And how would you know?" Chris says tiredly, his voice as low as he can make it.

"I don't know, how does one know these things, Christopher?" Peter replies blithely. It has a dark touch to it, Stiles notices absently. "You look it up on your phone, on the Internet, the TV... maybe even a watch! Oh, the wonders of modern technology, some of them even glow in the dark!"

Stiles hears an aggravated intake of air. Chris is very good at that, the angry but controlled breathing. Peter tends to either growl lowly or let out a darkly cheerful sound. There's no rhyme or reason to which one he uses, Stiles has noticed, neither of the two indicate a higher level of vexation than the other.

"Tell me you didn't," Chris says alarmed, his voice dropping even lower. "It wasn't worth the risk-"

"Like this will make things any different, Christopher," Peter scoffs darkly.

Stiles can hear Chris controlling his breathing. After a few seconds of silence, he finally answers. "Why do you always..." He swallows audibly and takes a deep breath. "It will make them worse and you know it. It will bring their attention back to-"

"Like it ever left," Peter growls.

"You don't-"

Stiles sighs tiredly and they immediately fall silent. He rises slowly and moves from his corner, his steps sure despite the complete darkness. Not that there's anything to trip on, really, because there's nothing but the iron bars and the concrete walls and floor. By now he would have learned the layout if there was, but since there wasn't, he was spared the pain.

(Hah. Dark humor. He still has it, deep, deep down.)

(Maybe.)

He reaches the bars and traces them slowly with a fingertip, one by one. It only stings at first but, soon enough, a burning smell reaches his nostrils. Once he has tried them all, he lifts the fingertip and licks it.

He goes back to his corner and lays down with another sigh.

Peter and Chris start bickering in the background again.

Eventually, with the sound of their voices, he falls asleep again.

\---

"-ike you would know, Christopher. Your idea of- It's four in the morning," Peter offers.

"Just because I don't think expending an obscene amount-"

"See? If you think it's obscene it's because you can't appreciate good quality-"

"You've been always such a-"

"Oh, we're going there, are we?"

"Maybe we are," Chris snarks. "It's not like we have anything else-"

Stiles sighs tiredly and they immediately fall silent. He rises slowly from his corner, bracing himself on the wall. He walks to the bars and traces them slowly with a fingertip, one by one. Once he has tried them all, he lifts the fingertip and licks it.

He goes back to his corner and lays down with another sigh.

Peter and Chris start bickering in the background again.

Eventually, with the sound of their voices, he falls asleep again.

\---

"Would you? Would you really?" Chris is saying when he wakes up. "Let's be honest here, would you have-?"

"It's one in the morning," Peter says before continuing briskly. "And now we'll never know, will we? You made your choice."

"You think I-"

"I don't have to think anything, your actions said it all, didn't they?"

"So did yours!"

"What did you expect-"

Stiles sighs and they immediately fall silent. He rises slowly from his corner, bracing himself on the wall. He pauses to breathe for a moment and then walks to the bars. He traces them slowly with a fingertip, one by one. Once he has tried them all, he lifts the fingertip and licks it.

He goes back to his corner and lays down with another sigh.

Peter and Chris start arguing in the background again.

Eventually, with the sound of their voices, he manages to fall asleep again.

\---

"That sonofa-!"

"Peter," Chris says, pained. There's an exhausted quality to it that wasn't there before. "I-"

"It's five in the morning," Peter says. "What else?" he snaps. "What else did he-"

"Does it really matter?" Chris asks tiredly.

"It-"

Stiles sighs and they immediately fall silent. He rises painstakingly slowly from his corner, bracing himself on the wall. He pauses to breathe for a few moments and then walks to the bars. He traces them slowly with a fingertip, one by one. Once he has tried them all, he lifts the fingertip and licks it.

He goes back to his corner and lays down with another sigh.

Peter and Chris remain silent in the background.

Sleep takes a long time to come.

\---

"It's six in the morning," Peter offers the moment he wakes up.

"I still hate it," Chris says, tired but amused.

"That's because you're an uncultured swine."

"No one likes it, Peter."

"No taste at all, you-"

Stiles rises painstakingly slowly from his corner and they immediately fall silent. He braces himself on the wall, pausing to breathe every few steps until he makes it to the bars. He traces them slowly with a fingertip, one by one. Once he has tried them all, he lifts the fingertip and licks it.

He goes back to his corner and lays down with a sigh.

Peter and Chris continue bantering in the background.

Their voices lull him to sleep easily.

\---

"-do. I would have, you know."

"It's been two days. It's three in the morning," Peter says softly. "I know."

"Do you really?"

"Now I do."

Stiles sighs and both of them fall silent. Their expectation is palpable in the air, but them being on good terms now won't prompt words out of Stiles' mouth. That was never the reason why he stopped talking in the first place.

He rises and walks to the bars. He places his fingertip on them one by one. The burn is there, but barely. Stiles takes a deep breath. Finally. He grabs them with both hands and pulls. With a loud crunch they break off the concrete. He hears Peter and Chris get up hastily as he walks to the next cell. He repeats the process until his packmates are free.

They crowd him and for a moment he expects panic to rise up his throat vengefully. It doesn't. "Alpha," they chant softly as they clutch him. For the first time in... who knows how long, he can breathe easier.

Then Peter slots his nose in his throat and finds the scars there.

Eichen House is reduced to rubble by the end of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me some love~


	17. Moon Tiara, action!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: "Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy."**

“What?!” Scott gapes, his eyes darting around to the rest of the pack present. When he only gets clueless looks in return, his heart starts to beat frantically in his chest. “ _What?_ ”

“What happened when the first Star Wars movie was finished and the producers wanted to show it at the theatres for the first time?” the sphinx repeats calmly.

“Is this a joke?” Lydia says incredulously, grabbing onto Jackson’s arm as he growls.

“Oh, my God,” Isaac whimpers at the same time Erica and Boyd share a disbelieving look.

“I’ve never even watched it!” Scott splutters, panicking.

“Is that your answer?” the sphinx says. Scott is pretty sure that she (he, it???) is judging him for not having watched the damn movies. It’s like with Stiles but way worse because Stiles isn’t fifteen feet tall and definitely hasn’t fearsome canines that… That’s it. This is how Scott McCall dies. He’s going to become sphinx chow. “Shall I repeat the question?”

“Wait, no! I mean, yes! But- just- Don’t I get some time to think about it?! Just-” He turns towards Isaac and whispers frantically. “ _Where’s Stiles???_ ”

“ _In his nerd thingie!_ ” Isaac whispers back, face white as a sheet.

“ _Call him!_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _My phone is toast, you have to call him!_ ”

“The answer can’t be given by anyone but the present,” the sphinx announces primly, licking her chomps lazily.

“Oh, for the love of-” Lydia growls and takes out her phone anyways, shoving it into Jackson’s hands with a warning look when it’s already dialing.

Then she proceeds to stall for time like the genius she is until Stiles shows up… “PETER, I SWEAR TO GOD-” draped over Peter’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes and wearing…

“You said you’d give me anything if I got you here in less than ten minutes, sweetheart, you can’t blame me for stacking the odds in my favor,” Peter smirks smarmily.

… a Sailor Moon costume…

… while Peter is wearing (and Scott hasn’t watched Star Wars, but _this_ he knows, Stiles used to have a poster in his room) a male version of the costume of the captive princess Leia.

“WATCH ME,” Stiles growls.

“Of course,” Peter says, slapping his butt gleefully. “You know I love watching-”

“THAT’S NOT-”

“My eyes!” Jackson whisper-growls, but can’t stop looking. “MY EYES, STILINSKI, GODDAMMIT!”

Scott chokes when Peter finally lets Stiles down and then starts coughing. Isaac, open-mouthed and speechless, pats his back absently and most certainly lacking enough force to be of any help at all. Lydia’s perfectly styled eyebrows climb to her hairline and her mouth doesn’t drop dramatically, but Scott is sure it’s only because she has too much self-control for that to happen.

“Those legs, _damn_ ,” Erica whistles, apparently completely forgetting the beast behind them that’s going to have them as a snack if they don’t answer any time soon. “I’m almost jealous. No, scratch that. I _am_ jealous.”

“DID YOU _SHAVE_? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!” Jackson chokes out, his brain evidently still trying to reboot since nothing disparaging comes out. Lydia just pats his head, condescending, her eyes studying Stiles intently.

“While I think that the concept of women having to shave to be pretty due to social pressure is utter bullshit, canon-wise she did shave and I’m all about being true to character,” Stiles replies flippantly as he gives a twirl to make the skirt flow. He ends the movement with a weird pose, placing a hand that’s pointing a finger on the crook of his elbow. “Now, what’s the problem?”

“You mean besides this?” Isaac snarks, pointing at the sphinx. She shifts and Isaac dives behind Scott with a yelp. “Her? Madame?” he amends rapidly, earning a snort from the beast.

“What happened when the first Star Wars movie was finished and the producers wanted to show it at the theatres for the first time?” the sphinx repeats once again.

“Oh. There was so little enthusiasm for the original Star Wars that 20th Century Fox had to use high-pressure tactics to get theater owners to show it. The theaters could only get a copy of Fox’s highly anticipated adaptation of the best-selling novel The Other Side of Midnight if they signed on for Star Wars as well.”

“Which is funny,” Peter says, smirking, “because Midnight was a bust and Star Wars became the highest-grossing movie to date, breaking the record set by Jaws two years earlier.”

Stiles swoons and then grins dopily. Isaac and Jackson simultaneously make gagging sounds. Scott groans.

“Correct,” the sphinx says. “Now, second question: what was the name of the second Star Wars movie?”

“Are you serious now?! More Star Wars shit?!” Isaac scowls lowly, peeking from behind Scott, only to be met with the full attention of the sphinx. He squeaks and hides again. Scott groans again. Please someone relieve him from his misery.

“Even I know that!” Jackson growls, fed-up. “It’s The Empire stri-”

“Moon Tiara, action!”

“DID YOU JUST FUCKING THROW A TIARA AT ME, STILINSKI?! DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!”

“Not really, but it seems that you do, Jackass. It was the Star Wars Holiday Special,” Stiles answers.

“Correct,” the sphinx says.

Jackson gapes. Lydia headslaps him and he doesn’t even react. The rest resolve to just remain silent and let the expert work.

“Now, third and last question,” the sphinx continues. “In which movie did George Lucas do a cameo?”

“Revenge of the Sith,” Peter replies, eyes locked onto Stiles’ with way too much heat for the situation. Scott loves Stiles, he’s his brother from another mother, but he wants bleach. By the gallon. Pronto. “As Baron Notluwiski Papanoida, a Pantoran statesman and playwright who lived in the last days of the Galactic Republic,” Peter answers.

“That was so hot,” Stiles whispers, starry-eyed and biting his lip as he twirls his finger around an obnoxiously yellow pigtail.

More gagging noises ensue. Jackson throws the tiara back and gets headslapped by Lydia again for it. Peter catches said tiara without even looking and lovingly places it back on Stiles’ forehead. Scott emits a dying cow noise before he can catch himself and Peter smirks.

“Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy, don’t you think?” he says.

“Just,” Scott whimpers as the sphinx leaves. “Please, leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering about Peter's cosplay, [here](https://feelingsdusk.tumblr.com/post/181306684994/somewhere-inthe-deep-gaynerds-slave-leia). You're welcome :)


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